


The Cup and the Dagger

by Piscaria



Category: Merlin (BBC)
Genre: Canon Era, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-22
Updated: 2011-01-22
Packaged: 2017-10-14 23:09:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/154496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piscaria/pseuds/Piscaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Merlin dies defending him, Arthur goes on a quest to get him back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cup and the Dagger

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for Reni_M for [Merlin Holidays](http://community.livejournal.com/merlin_holidays/)
> 
> Many thanks to my lovely betas, B. and M. for their timely comments and constructive criticism. Any remaining mistakes are my own. Thanks also to Drew, for being a sounding board and an all-around source of inspiration, support, and flaming three-headed bears.
> 
>  **Warning:** (skip)  Contains the temporary death of a main character.
> 
>  **Spoilers:** Contains spoilers through 3x12

By the time Arthur reached Gaius’s chambers, Merlin lay limp and feverish in his arms, his breath coming in short, shallow pants. Gaius looked up in alarm as Arthur kicked open the door, his startled expression giving way to worry as he caught sight of Merlin.

“What happened?” Gaius asked, abandoning his quill and scroll and hurrying to Arthur’s side.

“Snake bite,” Arthur said curtly, laying Merlin out on the bed. “Or something like a snake, anyway. It had two heads, and feathers.” Arthur dragged off Merlin’s boot, and rolled the hem of his trousers up so that Gaius could see the bite on his calf. He couldn’t help drawing in a breath as he did so — the wound had been bad enough in the clearing, angry red, the two fang marks leaking poison. But now, Merlin’s entire leg was swollen nearly twice its usual circumference. The skin around the fang marks had turned black, and a mottled grey discolouration was spreading slowly out from the wound.

Gaius gave it one assessing look, then frowned, hurrying to his work bench. Arthur watched numbly as he began pulling down glass vials and bundles of dried herbs. Feeling helpless, and at loose ends, he sat beside Merlin, reaching for his limp hand.

“How long ago?” Gaius asked as he worked.

“An hour,” Arthur said. “We were hunting. It came out of the woods. I’ve never seen anything like it, Gaius. I cut it in half, but it just reattached itself. Then Merlin . . .”

Arthur swallowed, still awed at the golden light that had flooded Merlin’s eyes, the power that had infused his voice. Energy had sizzled the air around him while he chanted the words that lit Arthur’s sword with blue fire. That Merlin had seemed so strong, so full of life, that Arthur couldn’t quite reconcile him to the limp, still boy stretched out on the bench, his swollen tongue peaking out of his mouth, and his pulse so weak that Arthur could barely feel it in his wrist.

Gaius stiffened, and then turned from the workbench, his face carefully guarded. “Merlin?” he repeated, voice cautious.

Arthur drew in a shaky breath, still clinging to Merlin’s hand. “He used magic, Gaius.”

Gaius blanched, steadying himself on the workbench. “Sire,” he started, and Arthur lifted a hand to stall him.

“It’s all right,” he said. “I’m not my father. And I won’t tell him about Merlin.”

In the three months since he’d retaken Camelot from Morgana, Arthur had assumed most of the daily responsibilities for running the kingdom. Uther spent most days in bed now, lost in a depression that might have seemed magical in origin, if Arthur hadn’t known the cause. As King Regent, Arthur felt sure that he could protect Merlin from his father if it came to that, but he didn’t want to put it to the test. Camelot had been through too much in recent months -- a battle of wills between Arthur and his father was the last thing the kingdom needed.

“Thank you, sire,” Gaius breathed, some of the tension leaving his shoulders.

“Merlin’s the one who deserves the thanks,” Arthur said softly. He looked down at Merlin’s fever-flushed face, and his stomach twisted. “I could never have killed it without his help. He cast some kind of spell on my sword. But after . . . “ He shuddered, gripping Merlin’s hand. “I took its head off, Gaius. Both of its heads. It was dead! I’m sure of it. But when Merlin stepped close to one of them, it flipped around and bit him!”

“Some snakes have the power to bite after death,” Gaus said, sounding troubled.

“I sucked on the wound and spat out the poison,” Arthur said, his cheeks flushing a little as he remembered the heat of Merlin’s skin beneath his lips. Four years of wanting to put his mouth on Merlin, and the first time he managed it, Merlin had lain pale and shaking on the forest floor, whimpering quietly in pain. “I heard once that it helped.”

“You did the right thing,” Gaius assured him. “If you hadn’t drained some of the poison from his system, I fear he’d already be dead.” Stepping to the bed, he pressed a poultice into Arthur’s hands. “Could I trouble you to apply this to his wound, sire? I must identify the creature that attacked Merlin if I’m to create an antidote.”

Arthur nodded mutely, glad to have something useful to do. Carefully, he pressed the warm herbs to Merlin’s wound. Merlin stirred a little, voicing a wordless protest. Arthur squeezed his hand. “You’ll be okay,” he promised, pressing the herbs a little harder to the wound. “I promise. You’ll be okay, Merlin.”

From behind him came a mighty crash. Arthur looked over his shoulder to see that Gaius had dropped a thick leather tome. The old man’s face had gone as white as parchment, and he was clutching the bookshelf as though he might fall over without it.

“Gaius! What is it?”

Gaius drew in a shuddering breath, and then released it. When he looked up, his eyes glimmered with tears. “The creature that attacked him is called an amphisbaena,” he said, his voice trembling a little. “Its bite is fatal. There is no antidote.”

Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending. “You’re wrong.” In response, Gaius bent down and retrieved the book. He crossed to Arthur’s side and showed him the illustration of a two-headed feathered snake. Arthur recognized it immediately. “No,” he whispered.

Gaius’s hand came to rest on his shoulder. “I can make him comfortable,” he said. “And wake him up, at least for a little while. We can . . . “ He swallowed, and the hand on Arthur’s shoulder fell away. “We can say our goodbyes, at least.”

Arthur shook his head, and stared down at Merlin’s face while Gaius returned to his workbench. Sweat beaded Merlin’s forehead, slicking his dark fringe. His body shook with fever. Not two hours ago, he’d been whinging, loudly, about having to carry the doe Arthur had shot. He couldn’t be dying. Gaius had to be wrong.

Carrying a small glass vial of ruby red liquid, Gaius knelt beside Arthur. “Tilt his head back,” he instructed, and Arthur did as he asked, his fingers gentle on Merlin’s jaw. Gaius poured the liquid into Merlin’s lips, and Merlin coughed, weakly. Arthur started at the sound, staring down at him anxiously. Gaius’s worn fingers touched his wrist.

“Merlin is like a son to me,” Gaius said. “Please, give me a moment with him.”

Arthur hesitated, loathe to relinquish Merlin’s hand and his place at his bedside. But Gaius’s eyes were pleading. Giving Merlin’s hand a final squeeze, he stood and withdrew, not to the corridor — he didn’t think he could handle curious eyes on him, not right now — but to Merlin’s room.

Sinking onto the bed, he caught Merlin’s pillow, hugging it to his chest. In the room beyond, he heard Gaius’s voice, followed by Merlin’s, both too quiet for him to make them out clearly. Arthur rested his cheek against the pillow, wondering when things had gone so horribly wrong.

Soft footsteps sounded from the stairs, and Arthur looked up to see Gaius step into the doorway, looking older than he ever had. “He wants to see you, sire,” Gaius said, and Arthur nodded, setting the pillow down. He followed Gaius into the workshop, and saw Merlin looking up at him with glassy eyes.

“Hey,” Merlin managed, his voice weak. His cheeks were still bright with fever, and even with the numbing effects of Gaius’s salve, his mouth was clenched with pain. But he grinned at Arthur anyway, dimples showing, and Arthur swallowed, overcome with fondness. Merlin was brave, he thought, even in death. So brave.

Arthur swallowed. “Hey.” Unsteadily, he crossed the room to perch on the edge of the bed. Gaius, mercifully, stayed behind, giving them space. Arthur felt a pang of gratitude for him.

“You’ll have to find someone else to polish your boots now,” Merlin said, the words slurring a little. His lashes fluttered down to lie against his cheek like a bruise.

“Not a chance,” Arthur said, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You’re not getting out of your duties that easily.”

A small smile quirked Merlin’s lips, and he blinked his eyes open, slowly, as though his eyelids were incredibly heavy. "Arthur," he murmured, lifting a hand to touch Arthur's cheek, weakly. Arthur caught the hand, pressing it there. Merlin gazed up at him fondly. “You know,” he whispered. “About the magic. You know, and you don’t hate me.”

Arthur stared down at him, dumbly. “You . . . you idiot!” he said hoarsely, feeling ready to be sick. “Did you think I’d have you beheaded? You’re . . .” He broke off, unable to put into words exactly what Merlin was to him.

Merlin just smiled up at him, his eyes fuzzy and unfocused. "I'm glad you know. If I’m going to die, I want you to know me.”

"Nobody is going to die here!" Arthur snapped.

But Merlin just smiled at him, a little fuzzily. "I'm honoured," he whispered, "to have served you. My king . . ."

"No!" Arthur yelled, squeezing Merlin's hand hard enough it must have hurt. "No goodbyes!"

Merlin shuddered, and drew a long gasping breath. Arthur waited, his heart pounding. But no other breath followed.

"Merlin!" Arthur caught him, and shook him. "Merlin, goddamnit! Stop fooling around! Merlin!"

"Sire!" Gaius caught his arm. "That's enough. He's gone."

Arthur whirled on Gaius, but the sight of the old man's tear-streaked face stopped him. His heart gave a great, heaving lurch, and he stumbled to his feet, feeling like he was going to be sick. Leaving Merlin on the bed, he stumbled past Gaius and out the door.

* * *

“The Cup!” Arthur cried, charging into Gaius’s workroom. He waved the Cup of Life in the air, and grinned at Gaius, wanting the old man to realize what it meant. “The Druids saved Leon with the Cup. We can do the same thing to Merlin!”

Gaius blinked up at him from where he was stooped over Merlin’s bedside. He’d wrapped Merlin in a white sheet while Arthur was gone — Merlin’s skin, always fair, looked waxy against the linen.

"The Cup can be used to heal the dead,” Gaius said. His voice was rough from tears, his face splotchy, but as Arthur watched, he squared his shoulders, clearly trying for his usual clinical detachment. “As long as the soul remains in the body.”

“See!” Arthur said, clapping Gaius’s shoulder. “We can save him!”

Gaius reached for the Cup, and turned it around in his hands. Finally, he sighed. “The power of Life and Death is only wielded by the strongest and mightiest sorcerers,” he said. “In our hands, it’s nothing more than a cup.”

"But you have magic!" Arthur protested. "My father said so."

Gaius sighed. “I can try,” he said, sounding dubious. “But we mustn't get our hopes up.”

Moving to the pitcher on his worktable, Gaius poured a stream of clear water into the Cup. Arthur watched with bated breath as Gaius waved his hand over, starting to chant. His voice broke midway through, and he sniffed, and started over. Arthur closed his eyes, aching for him, for both of them. Finally, Gaius’s eyes flashed gold.

Crossing to the sick bed, Gaius lifted the Cup to Merlin’s lips. They both watched anxiously as the water dripped inside Merlin’s parted lips. But nothing happened.

“Maybe it takes a few minutes to set in?” Arthur asked.

Gaius passed his hand over his eyes. In a weak voice, he said, “The effective of the Cup is instantaneous.” His breath hitched, and he took a moment to compose himself before continuing. “It’s as I suspected. I’m not strong enough to wield it.”

“Who is then?” Arthur demanded.

Sighing, Gaius said, “In all of Camelot, the only person I know of who’s ever used the Cup successfully was Merlin himself.”

Arthur’s eyebrows lifted, and he looked down at his friend’s body. Anger was smoldering in his chest — anger for the Merlin he’d lost, and the one he’d never had the chance to know. But he couldn’t focus on it. He had to be calm, calculating, as he was in battle.

Forcing his voice to remain steady, he asked, “How long until his soul leaves his body?”

Gaius blinked at the question. “There’s some debate on the topic,” he said slowly. “But most physicians believe it takes three days.”

Arthur nodded, swallowing. “Don’t bury him,” he said. “Don’t burn him. Don’t do anything until I get back.”

Gaius’s eyes narrowed, and he studied Arthur shrewdly. “Where are you going?”

“To the Druids,” he said. “If they healed Leon with the Cup, they can use it to heal Merlin.”

“The Druids have no reason to trust you,” Gaius said. “You’ll need a bargaining chip.”

“What would you suggest?” Arthur asked, although he suspected he knew the answer. Sure enough, Gaius nodded towards the Cup.

“The Druids are a peaceful people, Sire. They see themselves as guardians of all the old magical artifacts. It would be a tremendous gain for them to get the Cup of Life back.”

Arthur looked down at the Cup, imagining his father’s wrath when he learned that Arthur had used it as a bargaining chip, and with the Druids no less. Yet Arthur sat on the throne now, not his father. He would gladly face his father’s anger and disappointment if it meant that he’d have Merlin back. Before he realized he’d made up his mind, he was nodding. “All right,” he said.

Gaius’s worn hand closed around his arm. “Thank you, sire,” he breathed. In the dim light of the candle, Arthur could see tears glimmering at the corners of his eyes.

Standing, Arthur helped the old man to his feet. “I’ll do what I can, Gaius,” he said, suddenly feeling awkward and insufficient. But Gaius was smiling at him, his expression oddly paternal.

“You have amazing courage, sire,” Gaius said. “Perhaps that’s why Merlin cared so —”

“Don’t,” Arthur said, lifting his hand. “Don’t talk about him in the past tense. Not yet.”

Gaius seemed to shrink in on himself, diminishing with sadness. “I can preserve his body for three days, sire,” he said. “But you must be back by sunset. After that . . .”

“I’ll be back by then,” Arthur promised. “Or I won’t be back at all.”

* * *

The problem was, Arthur realized as he thundered out of the courtyard twenty minutes later, that he didn’t know where to find the Druids. Not exactly. They’d always been a secretive people. They’d had to be, in order to survive his father’s reign. Constantly on the move, they’d always managed to stay a half step ahead of Arthur’s patrols. Yet the caves where he’d last found them had been in Cenred’s kingdom. Cenred had not shared Uther’s hatred of magic, nor did his successor. The Druids were safe enough there — they might have decided to remain in place, even after Arthur discovered them. Turning his horse towards the Forest of Ascetir, Arthur decided that the caves were a reasonable place to start. The ride could be done in a day, if he hurried.

He rode for hours, the world passing by in flashes of snow, bare-limbed trees, and, in his mind at least, Merlin. Arthur felt his absence keenly. If he stared straight ahead at the road before him, he could almost pretend that Merlin rode behind -- Merlin in one of his moods, at least. On a normal day, the space between them would be filled with Merlin’s voice, whinging about the cold and complaining how unfair Arthur was to drag him into it, when they both knew that if Arthur had set out alone, Merlin would have only followed him. This silence made him imagine the other Merlin, the brooding, pained one who never favoured Arthur with so much a glare, and who wrapped himself in a silence so thick that it was dangerous, because Arthur kept wanting to go to greater and greater lengths to break it. In his mind, Merlin trailed him mournfully, like a wraith. Arthur imagined that he might catch a glimpse of him if he turned around, and so he stared straight ahead, not wanting to see the empty road behind him, with its single set of hoof prints in the snow.

 _“I’ll save you,”_ he said to the Merlin in his mind. _“I’ll bring you back. Trust me.”_

The road was remarkably free of bandits, and Arthur felt faintly disappointed. He would have relished a fight to focus his mind, although that made him imagine Merlin rolling his eyes. “ _Oh yes, the great Arthur Pendragon can take on whole teams of bandits on his own,_ his imaginary Merlin broke his silence to say. _“Why didn’t you bring Gwaine or Lancelot along with you? Idiot!”_ Arthur sighed, and pressed his horse forward, supposing that even bandits must go inside in the cold.

As the purple glow of twilight brightened the horizon, a child appeared in the road before Arthur. So suddenly did she appear that Arthur nearly trampled over her — one moment, the road stretched empty before him, all shadows and mist. The next, a pale-eyed child stood there, less than three strides ahead of him. Starting, Arthur sat deeper in the saddle, lifting the reigns slightly and squeezing in his knees.

Obediently, his mare planted her two fore feet, rocking Arthur forward a bit with her sudden stop. Stroking her neck, Arthur swung off the shadow, and knelt to examine the child.

A little girl stood there, dressed in a patched blue shift and a dove grey mantle that couldn’t possibly keep out the winter chill. Arthur guessed she was four, maybe five — she came about to his waist, and her cheeks were still plump with baby fat. Dark curls tangled around her face like a hedgerow. Her eyes were large, and eerily pale, almost milky. Although her chin lifted slightly at Arthur’s approach, her gaze remained solidly fixed to the right of him. She was blind, Arthur realized.

Dropping to a crouch before her, he said, “You shouldn’t stand in the road like that. It's dangerous.”

She reached forward at the sound of his voice, her plump hand seeking his face. In the waning light, Arthur saw the sooty lines of a triskellion tattooed on the back of her wrist. Her fingers lit on his cheek, light as a butterfly. Frowning intently, she mapped the lines of his face. Arthur held still, unnerved, though there was no reason to be.

 _“I don’t trust her,”_ his imaginary Merlin said.

 _“Shut up, Merlin,”_ Arthur thought, and felt some of his trepidation fade. The child’s fingers were cold against his skin. She ought to have some mittens. Her lips were pursed, like she was thinking intently.

Finally, she pulled back, and smiled beatifically. “Arthur?” she asked, in a piping voice.

Arthur nodded, then, realizing she couldn’t see the movement. “Yes. I’m Arthur Pendragon.”

She reached out again, expectantly. After a moment, he reached out and took her hand, feeling at loose ends. Her tiny fist curled around two of his fingers, and taking a step sideways, she tugged him towards the forest.

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“This way,” she said.

They took a few, steps forward, away from the road, the snow crunching up to Arthur’s knees and reaching the child’s waist. A few steps was all it took for Arthur to have enough. Leaning forward, he scooped her up and deposited her onto the saddle, guiding her flailing hands to the pommel.

“Hold on tight,” he said. After a moment’s thought, he unfastened his red cloak, and draped it over her shoulders, lifting the hood to cover her curls. Her mouth made a surprised little o, and she lifted a hand to stroke the fur lining.

“Where do you need to go?” Arthur asked, taking the reins. “Do you live near here?”

She leaned over in the saddle so suddenly that Arthur feared she might tumble out of it. But instead, she only rested her hand atop his head, like a benediction. A chill passed through him that had nothing to do with the lightly falling snow.

“I can show you the way,” she said.

Swallowing, he swung into the saddle behind her. She lifted a hand, her plump wrist peeking from the voluminous folds of his cloak, and pointed, not the way she’d been tugging him, but north, into the forest. Arthur gave the darkening woods a dubious look, then sighed, and nudged his horse forward.

The journey through the woods was long and slow. With uncanny accuracy, the blind girl pointed out a faint series of deer trails so covered with snow that even Arthur’s trained eyes couldn’t spot them. Several times, he was obliged to dismount and clear a fallen branch from the horse’s path. After awhile, it became easier to walk beside the horse, holding the reigns. His boots and trousers were soaked and half-frozen, he shivered without his cloak, and twice, he nearly fell, tripping over roots hidden beneath the snow.

The child had gone silent in the saddle, only moving to point the twists and turns in the deer trail.

Arthur didn’t know how much time had passed before he caught the faint glow of light through the trees, and heard the distant sound of voices. At last, they pushed through a copse of alders into a clearing lit by dancing torchlight. Several tents dotted the ground here, lit from within like glowing flowers. Two young men, obviously sentries, had been playing a game of knucklebones with each other. But as Arthur stumbled into the clearing, leading the horse behind him, they looked up, reaching for their weapons.

"How did you get here?" the tallest one demanded, eyeing Arthur warily.

"The girl," Arthur said, turning to point to her -- but the child was gone. His cloak puddled over the saddle like a pool of blood.

* * *

"The girl’s name is Tede,” the Druid elder said, handing Arthur a steaming cup of tea. The elder, Iseldir, was the same man who’d taken Mordred when Arthur smuggled him out of Camelot, and the one who’d later given Arthur the Cup of Life.

Arthur sniffed the tea. It smelled faintly medicinal, but when he took a sip, the warmth seemed to spread through his entire body. “Tede?”

Seated beside Arthur, a plump woman in moss-green robes leaned forward conspiratorially. “She’s been dead for over twenty years,” she said.

"She's dead?" Arthur remembered the touch of her fingers on his face, her dimpled smile. The hair on the back of his neck rose, and it took all of his training to restrain a shiver. "How did she die?" he asked, although he suspected he knew the answer.

Sure enough, a tall man with a bushy red beard glared at him. "Your father had her drowned," he said. "It never made a difference to him whether a magic user was a hardened sorcerer or a blind girl who used the Sight to find her way."

"She's followed us ever since," the plump woman said softly. "Sometimes she appears on the road, and leads strangers away."

"She's led two of your patrols into bogs,", the red-haired man said mildly. "You're lucky she was kinder to you."

Iseldir crossed his arms. "Why have you come here, Arthur?" he asked. "Do you want only to threaten more of our children?"

Arthur swallowed. "I . . . I shouldn't have done that last time," he said.

The red-haired man scoffed, and the plump woman glared at him.

"Damned right you shouldn't have," she said. "That was my nephew you held a sword to."

Arthur bowed his head, his chest burning. "I'm sorry," he said. "I needed the Cup. I didn't know what else to do."

"And so you have the Cup," Iseldir said. "Although if the rumours that have reached this far are true, it’s brought you more trouble than gain. So again, why have you come here, Arthur Pendragon?”

In response, Arthur reached into his pack and pulled out the Cup. “You’ve used this before to save one of my knights,” he said. “Now I need you to save somebody else. If you do, I’ll give it back to you.”

The elders gathered around the circle exchanged a series of troubled glances with each other. At last, Iseldir sighed. “We cannot give you the help you seek, Arthur Pendragon.”

“You don't understand!” Arthur protested.

“But we do,” Iseldir said. “Emrys is dead. We saw the signs of his passing last night.”

“A falcon, killed by the snake,” an old woman with a long white braid breathed.

Arthur shook his head. “No! I don’t know an Emrys. I need help for Merlin. He’s my servant! My . . . my friend.”

“The man who was with you when you retrieved the Cup,” Iseldir said, and Arthur nodded eagerly.

“We know him as Emrys,” the plump woman said softly. “His loss grieves us, as it does you. But we can’t help.”

“No!” Arthur said. “You’ve got to do something!” Lunging to his feet, he reached for his sword, holding the tip to Iseldir’s throat. The plump woman gasped, and the red-headed man started forward, then stopped at Arthur’s glare. The old woman shuffled to her feet, and patted Arthur’s arm.

"I can tell you cared very deeply about him," she said, her voice sounding patient, almost maternal. Arthur opened his mouth to snap at her, then closed it, feeling frustrated and wrong-footed.

Iseldir sighed. "I only met Emrys once," he said, "when you brought him to the cave. Yet on one point, the prophecies are all clear: he was always your most loyal defender. I can't imagine he would place his faith in a man who would threaten an innocent people."

Anguished, Arthur stared down the length of the sword at him, aching to do something useful, something he knew how to accomplish. Iseldir looked back, unafraid. With a strangled sob, Arthur wrenched down the sword, and caught the back of his chair to keep himself from falling, doubled over, with grief. "I don't understand," he whispered, almost to himself. "You brought Leon back. Why not Merlin?"

“The Cup isn't a toy," the red-haired man said firmly. "Nothing is more vital to the Old Religion than balance. For a life to be saved, a life must be given. That is the way of things.”

The old woman nodded. “I offered myself in your knight’s place,” she said. “But the powers of Life and Death are fickle. They let an old woman live to ache a few months longer, and instead took my granddaughter in childbirth.”  
“Why did you save him then?” Arthur asked.

Iseldir sighed. "There are many prophecies about the Cup of Life, Arthur Pendragon," he said. "But on one point, all of them are clear: it was fated to end up in your hands. We saved your knight because we knew that you would claim the Cup once you learned of its existence."

"But I can't use it!" Arthur protested. "Not without Merlin."

"Fate sometimes works in mysterious ways," the plump woman said. "His death is an example of that." Arthur stared at her uncomprehending, and she clarified. "Nature needs a balance. Your father has tipped the scales too far in his persecution of magic users. That much death demands retribution. It's a pity that, in return, the greatest sorcerer of our time was called to pay that balance. Yet Emrys has always supported the throne of Camelot. I suppose it’s fitting, in a way."

Arthur shook his head. “No," he said. "It can't be that simple. There has to be a way to bring him back!"

"Emrys was no ordinary man," the old woman said. "The price that would be required to bring him back," she trailed off, and Arthur caught a glimpse of fear in her eyes.

He hesitated, torn. When he was prince, he would have offered his own life for Merlin unthinkingly — had offered it, in fact. But now he was acting king. With his father still infirm, and Camelot left without an heir, Arthur had no doubts what would happen if he offered his own life in Merlin’s place. Camelot would fall, and his people would pay the price for it. He remained silent, hating himself for it.

The red-headed man was nodding in agreement. “The Destiny that was written for you and Emrys was powerful,” he said. “But destiny is cold comfort for those who must suffer for it. We can’t help you use the Cup in good conscience. Not even for him."

"You're wrong!" Arthur said. "You . . . you talk about him like he's a legend! But he's not -- I'm not asking for your help to bring back a legend. Merlin is kind, and stupid, and good-hearted, and he died protecting me. Not for destiny, or whatever you call it, but because he was my friend.”

“We all must lose those we love someday,” Iseldir said, his voice suddenly hard. “Even you.” He stood. "You may yet find the help you need, but you won't find it here."

Turning on his heel, Iseldir strode out of the tent, his thin, wool cloak trailing in the air behind him like a spirit. One by one, the other Druids followed, the plump sending a sympathetic glance Arthur’s way, the red-headed man glaring at him. The old woman paused at his side, and trailed her hand, sympathetically, through his hair, like a grandmother might. Then she, too, was gone.

Arthur sank to his knees, feeling hollow. He didn’t know how long he remained there, grief freezing him in place. Only when the corner of the tent lifted with the barest whisper of sound, did Arthur look up, curiosity slowly rising through his grief.

A youth slipped inside the tent. He was fourteen, maybe fifteen, pale, and skinny. His green tunic was unlaced, revealing a spiral tattoo over his breastbone. He’d grown taller in the years since Arthur had seen him last, and the baby-soft roundness of his cheeks had hollowed. But Arthur recognized the unsettling blue eyes, the pendant he wore around his neck.

“Mordred?"

“Arthur.” The young man responded, inclining his head slightly, as though he, too, were a royalty, meeting Arthur for a treaty signing or a tournament. He carried himself like a prince, Arthur noticed dully, all certainty and grace. “I heard what happened,” Mordred said. “I’m surprised that the elders would not move to help Emrys.”

“It’s not right!” Arthur exploded. “It’s not his time!”

“We don’t all think like the elders do,” Mordred said, dropping to a crouch beside Arthur. “Some of us are tired of waiting passively while the world falls to pieces around us. The elders fear to act because we are diminished. They don’t understand that sometimes we need to fight to preserve ourselves. The world is changing, Arthur.”

Arthur stared at him, and licked his lips. “Do you know how to use the Cup of Life?” he asked.

Mordred nodded, a small smile flickering at the corners of his mouth. “I do.”

“Will you help me?” Arthur asked, eagerness touching his voice. “I’ll give it to you afterwards.”

Mordred laughed. “Keep the Cup," he said. "I'm not the one destined to have it."

“What do you want, then?” Arthur asked.

Mordred looked at him sideways. “The earth is reeling beneath your feet, Arthur,” he said. “You can’t hear her, but she’s calling out in pain. We magic users are a part of the earth, you see. Her magic runs in our veins. Every time one of us dies, she feels it, like you would feel the loss of a finger or a toe.” He reached out, and ran a hand soothingly over the grass floor of the tent. “So many of us have died, Arthur,” he said, his voice growing softer, almost hypnotic. “She is crumpling from the shock of it. She’s lost her orbit. The center cannot hold.” Mordred looked up, and his eyes sharpened, fixing on Arthur unerringly. “It will take magic to restore the balance,” he said. “Powerful magic. The elders are afraid to wield it, but _we_ aren’t. We know our duty to the earth, and we’ll see it done.”

“What kind of magic?” Arthur asked, a sinking feeling in his stomach.

Mordred smiled, licking his lips. “Blood magic,” he breathed. “One sacrifice to replace the hundreds of lives that were stripped from her. It sounds fair, doesn’t it?”

“Fair?” Arthur spat. “Like the Old Religion is ever fair. Whose blood?”

“A Pendragon carried out this crime,” Mordred said. “A Pendragon must be the one to repent it.”

“I won’t give you my father!” Arthur protested. “Not even for him.”

Mordred laughed. “You misunderstand me. Uther’s death would not do. He still does not see the error of his ways, even now, when all of the evidence is there before him. No. It must be a willing sacrifice, and a nobler one.” His eyes glittered eerily as he looked up at Arthur. “It would have to be you.”

Arthur drew in a shaky breath, and released it. “No,” he said, rising to his feet.

“You’ve risked your life for him before,” Mordred said, and some dim part of Arthur’s mind wondered how he’d known that. “How would this be any different?”

Arthur turned on him, disbelieving. “It’s one thing to risk myself for a comrade on the battlefield or on a quest,” he said. “I’m the first knight of Camelot. It’s my duty to be the best, to be the bravest, to fight for my people as I ask them to fight for the kingdom. Dying in battle that way would be noble. But to leave my people without an heir just so that I can save my friend?” He shook his head. “You can’t imagine how it feels to think of facing the future without him,” he said, his voice dropping. “But if I took your offer, I would be worse than my father. He acted out of ignorance, and fear, and the genuine belief that magic was dangerous to Camelot. I would be acting only out of selfishness. I won’t do it.”

Mordred stared up at him with something like hunger on his face. “You are everything the legends said,” he whispered. “I didn’t see it at first. But you _are_. What a brilliant sacrifice you’d make, Arthur Pendragon.”

“I already told you,” Arthur said. “No.”

“I understand,” Mordred said, nodding. “You need to care for your people. They need a king to repair the damage that your father wrought.” His face turned crafty, and he cocked his head to one side. “What if you could do both?” he asked.

Arthur looked at him sharply. “What do you mean?”

“Twenty-three years,” Mordred said. “That’s how long your father has been murdering my people. What if I could give you another twenty-three?”

Arthur stared at him, uncomprehending. “What?”

“Twenty-three years,” Mordred whispered, saying the words like a promise. “Twenty-three years with _him_ by your side. Imagine the kingdom you could have, the deeds you could accomplish together.”

“I’d be forty-six,” Arthur said. “That’s younger than my father.”

Mordred shrugged. “Greatness diminishes with age,” he said. “And you will be great, Arthur. How would you rather pass? As an old man, doddering away while your kingdom moves forward without you, waiting for you to die and your heir to replace you? Or as a warrior, at the height of your reign, struck dead nobly, on the battlefield by my hand? Old men die forgotten, Arthur. But that death? Stories will be told about it centuries from now.”

“You lie,” Arthur choked, scrutinizing Mordred’s inscrutable face.

“I never lie,” Mordred said calmly. He rose to his feet in a fluid motion, and crossed his arms over his chest. “Emrys, too, could have been great. He gave his life for you. Surely he’s worth twenty-three years?”

Arthur closed his eyes, wrapping his hand around the Cup. “All right,” he agreed.

* * *

In the moonlight, Arthur watched from the shade of an oak tree as Mordred traced a spiral in the snow. He was chanting over it, in that same language that Merlin had used to destroy the monster. Arthur’s hands clenched into fists at his side, and he forced himself to think of Merlin. _I’m doing the right thing,_ he told himself. And, _he’d do the same for me._ Because Merlin would — Arthur was sure of it. He was so lost in his thoughts that he didn’t realize Mordred had stopped chanting until the boy stood in front of him, offering a dagger, hilt forward.

“You’ll have to do this next bit,” he said.

Arthur regarded the dagger warily. “What do I do?” he asked.

“Let one drop of blood fall in the center of the spiral,” Mordred said, pointing to it. “Make sure not to mess up any of the markings.” He smiled, a little dreamily. “One drop of blood now, for the promise of more in twenty-three years.”

Arthur glanced at the dagger, then up at Mordred. “Twenty-three years is a long time,” he said. “My life is dangerous. You do realize that I might die before then?”

Mordred shrugged. “I’m willing to take the chance that you might die,” he said. “Are you willing to take the chance that you might live?”

Arthur regarded him warily for a long moment, then took the dagger. Moving carefully around the outside edge of the spiral, he leaned forward and brought the tip of the dagger to the palm of his shield hand. A drop of blood welled up, dark against the gleaming steal blade. Extending his hand, Arthur let it fall.

For a moment, the blood gleamed like a single ruby in the white expanse of snow. Then it sank, disappearing into the earth. The spiral glowed gold, then faded.

“It’s done,” Mordred said. “The pact is sealed and binding.” Crossing to stand in front of Arthur, he held out his hand for the dagger. Arthur swallowed, curiously reluctant to turn it in his hand and offer it hilt first, as custom dictated. Feeling Mordred’s eyes on him, he forced himself to wrap his fingers around the blade, clumsier than he’d ever been with a dagger. Meeting Mordred’s smirk with a haughty expression, he offered the bone hilt of the dagger to him.

Mordred smiled, and slid it from his grip with exaggerated care. “Remember this dagger, Arthur Pendragon,” he said, lifting it to the moonlight. “Twenty-three years from now, it will seal your fate.”

Arthur forced his face to remain impassive, though his stomach twisted sickeningly. “If I live that long,” he said lightly. Retrieving the cup from his bag, he offered it to Mordred. “The Cup of Life?”

“Of course.” Mordred lifted the Cup into the air, and, looking skyward, began to chant. As Arthur watched, clouds gathered in the clear sky above, and a bolt of lightning flashed, thunder shaking the ground beneath his feet. Inexplicably, rain began to fall, melting the snow around their feet. Somehow dry, despite the rain which streaked around them, plastering Arthur’s fringe to his hair and weighing down his cloak, Mordred passed the Cup, now brimming with water, to Arthur. With a word, the rain lessened, then stopped as quickly as it had begun.

“Don’t spill this,” Mordred warned him. “If Emrys’s soul remains in his body, the water from this cup will revive him.”

Arthur nodded. Holding the Cup gingerly, he climbed onto his horse, settling it on the saddle between his legs. “Thank you, Mordred,” he said.

Mordred smiled, and the hair on the back of Arthur’s neck lifted. “Oh no, Arthur,” he breathed. “Thank _you._ ”

* * *

The trip back to Camelot was longer than the trip to the forest. Arthur rode all night, and through the following day. He didn’t dare to spur his horse to a gallop, lest the water spill. Instead, he kept to a slow trot, his palm braced over the open mouth of the Cup to keep the water from sloshing over the slides. By the time he rode through the palace gate, it was already sunset. Despite his best efforts, some of the water had spilled, although the Cup remained nearly full.

“Sire!” Gaius said in relief, as Arthur rushed into his workroom. His eyebrows raised at the Cup in Arthur’s hand.

“This is it,” Arthur said tightly. “Did you . . .?” He couldn’t bring himself to ask the words out loud. The sick bed was empty.

“He’s in his room,” Gaius said.

Arthur nodded, and started up the stairs to Merlin’s room. Whatever Gaius has done worked wonders, Arthur thought dully, staring down at Merlin’s body. He looked like he might be asleep, save for his waxy complexion. Settling gingerly on the edge of the bed, Arthur lifted the cup to Merlin’s lips. The water poured into his mouth and dribbled down the sides, but nothing happened.

“No,” Arthur whispered. “Merlin.”

He emptied the goblet down Merlin’s throat, and waited, but Merlin lay still, cold and unresponsive.

A gentle hand curled over Arthur’s shoulder. “Sire,” Gaius said. “He’s moved on.”

“No!” Arthur protested. “I’ll try again.”

“Arthur,” Gaius said quietly. “You’ve got to let him go.”

“I can’t,” Arthur whispered. His breath hitched, and only then did he notice the tears sliding down his face. “I can’t do this without him, Gaius!”

He sank to his knees beside the bed, letting the Cup fall to the floor beside him. In his mind, he saw only Merlin. Merlin’s slim, quick fingers, his blue eyes and dimpled smile. The ache that he hadn’t allowed himself to feel welled up in his chest, and Arthur bowed his head, shoulders shaking. He couldn’t imagine twenty-three years without Merlin. The grief in his heart swelled and rolled like waves. The pain was intense, like his own soul was breaking, yet beneath dark, crashing grief, flashed a sudden bolt of golden light, like the fire in Merlin’s eyes as he’d faced the amphisbaena.

Arthur stared at the ground, seeing Merlin in his mind. “We . . . we were like two sides of the same coin,” he whispered, knowing even as he spoke that the words were true.

The golden fire beneath the grief flashed again, brighter this time. In its light, he saw Merlin’s tall, slim form. Merlin lifted a hand to wave, smiling sadly, then turned to walk away.

“No!” Arthur roared, rising to his feet. In his mind, he was lunging forward, diving into the crashing waves. Merlin turned at the sound, his mouth opening in surprise. Struggling through the grief and the fear, Arthur pressed forward and caught Merlin’s wrist. The shock of contact was instantaneous.

The golden light crashed through him, suffusing his senses, and the effect in the physical world was like a blanket of fog drawing around him. The sights and sounds of the room faded. Arthur gasped in shock, his soul clinging to Merlin’s with all its might.

“Sire?” Gaius said, concerned, in a voice that sounded like he’d been saying it for some time.

Arthur ignored him, dropping to a crouch. Blindly, he felt on the floor for the Cup of Life. His fingers felt cold and numb as they wrapped around it, like he’d plunged his hands in snow. On shaky legs, he rose, and stumbled across the room to the window.

Gaius was watching him with pursed lips now, his eyebrows risen nearly to his hairline. “Sire?” he said again. “What are you doing?”

Arthur lifted a trembling hand, and reached for the window latch. His fingers felt numb, prickly, as though they’d fallen asleep. It took him two tries to unlatch it, and then the shutters were falling open, hitting the side of the castle with a muffled bang. Gripping the side of the windowsill for balance, Arthur leaned out the window, and held the Cup of Life out to the falling snow.

The first flake hit the silver rim and melted slowly, trailing wetly down the concave surface. Another followed, then another. It was too slow, though — the snow was falling too sparsely.

“ _Sniwe!_ ” he heard a voice say. Only when his throat closed hollow and sore around the unfamiliar word did he realize it was his own.

“Arthur!” Gaius yelled, gripping his shoulder.

Arthur shook him off, his whole attention focused on the blizzard that was rising up around him. Snow fell in great clumps from the sky. It melted as soon as it hit the cup, splashing nearer and nearer to the brim each time. The Cup had grown warm in his hands, pulsing like a heart.

Turning from the window, Arthur nearly collided with Gaius, who stood behind him, frowning and hunched beneath his robes. He was speaking urgently to Arthur, but the words couldn’t penetrate the fog of his brain. Patting Gaius’s shoulder to reassure him, Arthur set the Cup of Life on Merlin’s night table, and stepped away from it.

“ _Amel eftforgienesse!_ ” he said, lifting his hand over the chalice. In the melted snow, he caught a glimpse of his own eyes flashing gold.

He turned to Merlin, so still and empty on the bed. Lifting the cup in a toast, he murmured, “ _Aethwierth gast_ ,” and drank.

The water hit his tongue like liquid lightning, stronger than the spirits in his father’s storeroom. It tasted cold and sharp, like glacier water or pine-scented mountain air. His hair rose on end from the shock of it, and for a moment, he felt so giddy with life that he thought he might fly, if he could only stand.

“Arthur!” Gaius was yelling, his voice finally registering in Arthur’s ears. “You don’t know what it will do to you!”

He didn’t know. He didn’t care.

Leaning forward, he touched a hand to Merlin’s cold, stiff cheek. Carefully, Arthur sealed his mouth over Merlin’s, and let the water flow between them.

Merlin's eyes flew open, blazing with the same golden fire that coursed through Arthur’s body. He drew in a breath that threatened to steal the last vestiges of air from Arthur's lungs. His lips softened, warmed beneath Arthur's. Merlin's mouth moved, weakly, like he was trying to speak, but it was soundless, weak. It felt like a kiss, and Arthur couldn't stop himself from pressing forward and running his tongue along the bow of Merlin's upper lip. It was damp, tasting of blood and melted snow. Arthur pulled back dizzily. Merlin murmured a wordless sigh, and followed, his lips seeking Arthur's. They kissed again, mouths opening to each other, and through the conduit of lips and tongues, Arthur felt the golden fire moving through him, back into Merlin where it belonged.

When it left him, he shuddered and gasped, slumping down against Merlin. The room was spinning around him, and he felt weak suddenly. Below him, Merlin's eyes had widened with alarm. Merlin was sitting up, shakily, ignoring Gaius's protests, his limbs tangling with Arthur’s.

Merlin’s lips were moving, forming Arthur’s name, but he couldn’t make out the sound over the rushing of blood in his ears. The last thing he felt were Merlin’s arms wrapping around him, and then the world went dark.

* * *

Arthur woke to a hand brushing back his hair. Wearily, he opened his eyes, expecting to see Merlin, or maybe Gwen. But Uther was sitting by his bedside, dressed in black. The haunted expression on his face reminded Arthur of Gaius’s face at Merlin’s death bed, and he shuddered.

"Merlin?" he whispered, half afraid to know. The ride to the forest, the pact with Mordred, Merlin waking beneath his kiss -- it felt like something from a dream. Arthur thought his heart might break if he were wrong, if Merlin was still dead.

Uther laughed, a harsh and ragged sound, like shards of broken glass. "Your _servant_ ," he spat, "has recovered fully from the poison. He certainly hasn't spent the last day unconscious, as you have."

Arthur sank back against the pillows, limp with relief. “Thank God,” he murmured.

Uther leaned forward with a murderous expression. "You used the Cup, Arthur!" he roared. For the first time since he’d lost his throne to Morgana, he sounded like his old self. "How could you betray me like this? After everything that this kingdom has gone through, you dare use the very instrument that our enemies used against us? And for a servant?"

"He's more than a servant to me," Arthur protested, struggling to sit up.

"You used magic!" Uther roared, throwing the word between them like a gauntlet. He was leaning forward, breathing heavily, sparked with life in a way that Arthur hadn't seen in months. His hatred of magic flared with the heat of a hundred funeral pyres, his rage reviving him in a way that none of Gaius's treatments had.

"Yes," Arthur said, feeling exhausted. "I used magic. And I'd do it again."

Uther stared at him, stricken, then stumbled to his feet. "Guards!" he yelled.

Yet when the door opened, it was Lancelot and Gwaine who entered. They stepped inside and stood calmly at attention, looking, not towards Uther, but at Arthur for instruction.

"Your majesty?" Gwaine asked calmly, deliberately, his eyes never leaving Arthur's. It was a king's title, and Uther turned purple at the use of it.

Arthur sighed. "Father," he said. "Please. Don't make me do this."

Uther looked from the knights to Arthur, speechless with betrayal and impotent rage. His old fire had dulled, and he was merely sputtering now, like a candle about to burn out. “You can't imagine," he said, his voice dripping venom, "what a terrible thing it is to have your own child betray you." Drawing himself up to his full height, he turned and swept out of the room in a way that was startlingly reminiscent of Morgana.

Arthur leaned back against the bed, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Gwaine sighed loudly, breaking the tension in the room. “ _Parents,_ ” he said. “What can you do with them?”

Lancelot turned to stare at him with a faintly scandalized expression, and Arthur felt his eyebrows rise. Gwaine’s cheekiness reminded him so very much of Merlin in that moment that he almost wanted to hug him. Or maybe throw something. Instead, he drew himself back up.

"Leave me," Arthur said. "Don't let anyone else enter."

They nodded, and scooted out of the room, Lancelot with a sympathetic bow, and Gwaine with a pat on the back.

* * *

Arthur was peering out the window, one foot perched on the sill, when he heard the door open behind him. He didn't need to look to know that it was Merlin. Nobody else would get past Gwaine and Lancelot.

"You have the evening off," he said without turning.

Merlin, predictably, ignored him. His footsteps sounded on the floorboards. Behind him, Arthur heard the soft clank of a tray hitting the table, and the rattle of cutlery.

“I brought you dinner, sire,” Merlin said, sounding hesitant.

Giving into temptation, Arthur turned and looked at Merlin. He looked fragile, still, his cheekbones even more prominent than usual, with dark circles beneath his eyes. But he was alive. His chest rose and fell with each breath, and Arthur found himself fixating on the movement, fascinated. Merlin caught him staring, and blushed, busying himself with the wineskin’s fastening.

“I wanted to thank you,” Merlin said. “For . . .” He waved his hand vaguely, looking faintly ill.

Arthur cleared his throat. “Yes. Well, it would be a pity to saddle another servant with all of the work you’ve left unfinished.”

“Oi!” Merlin said. “You and Gaius work me to the bone!”

Arthur flinched, reminded suddenly of Merlin lying dead on the workbench. Merlin frowned, and turned to pour the wine. Deciding that distraction was an excellent idea, Arthur lifted the lid from the platter to reveal roast chicken, mashed turnips, clustered grapes, mild cheese, and a hunk of dark bread.

“What? No rat tonight?”

“They were out,” Merlin said, but a dark, brooding note lingered beneath the false cheer in his voice. He hesitated, drumming his fingers on the back of a chair and shooting sidelong glances at Arthur.

“What _is_ it, Merlin?” Arthur asked sharply.

Merlin looked up, face and voice suddenly serious. “Arthur,” he started, and Arthur groaned, interrupting him.

“If this is about my father,” he said, “don’t even start.”

Merlin’s eyebrows flew up. “Your fath--? No! I mean, Lancelot and Gwaine told me what happened. But that’s not . . .” he trailed off, looking uncertain.

“What, then?” Arthur asked, sipping his wine.

Merlin took a deep breath, as if steadying his courage. “What did you offer in return for my life?”

Arthur coughed, nearly choking on his wine, and Merlin had to step forward and pound his back. When he’d recovered enough to speak, Arthur twisted his napkin in his lap and said, “It was nothing.”

Merlin glared at him, suddenly fierce. “It’s a life for a life, Arthur!”

“Listen to you!” Arthur said. “You sound like you’ve never used the Cup yourself!” Merlin paled, and Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don’t look so surprised,” he said. “Gaius told me.” Merlin glared, shoving his hands deep in his pockets. Arthur tore a savage bite from his roll. When the silence between them had grown tense enough, he asked, “So, who did you offer up?”

Merlin sighed. “It’s complicated.”

“So is this,” Arthur announced, vindicated.

“Fine!” Merlin snapped. “You really want to know?" He planted his hands on the table, glaring down at Arthur. "You were dying from the Questing Beast’s bite!” Arthur stared up at him, startled, but Merlin kept talking, his voice gaining momentum. “There was no way to cure you. I offered myself in your place, but instead, the gods tried to take my mother!” The roll fell from Arthur’s hand, and rolled off the side of the table. “And then!” Merlin continued, growing louder, “Gaius snuck out ahead of me, and offered his life for mine, because I was going to offer myself in her place, you see.”

Arthur frowned, trying to keep sense of everything. “But Gaius isn’t dead.”

“That’s because I killed Nimueh instead!” Merlin yelled. “So don’t try to tell me that it’s not a big deal. I know better, Arthur!” He glared at Arthur, breathing heavily. Arthur stared back, stunned into silence. After a moment, Merlin seemed to deflate beneath his gaze. He sank into the chair beside Arthur, glaring down at the table. His hands were shaking.

Arthur shook his head, trying to make sense of everything Merlin had told him. Conflicting emotions chased each other through his head. Was he impressed? Upset? Angry? Relieved? He didn’t know what he felt. He didn’t know what to say. Part of him wanted to shake Merlin, to scream at him for even thinking about giving his life that way. Part of him wanted to apologize for Hunith, for Gaius, for Merlin himself. Part of him wanted to thump Merlin on the shoulder and congratulate him for besting Nimueh, though Arthur had a niggling suspicion that Merlin just might incinerate him if he tried. Instead, Arthur poured another glass of wine, then one for Merlin. Slowly, quietly, he told him everything.

It went over about as well as he expected.

“You’re insane!” Merlin said, rising to his feet and nearly spilling his wine as he slammed it down on the table. “Arthur, what on earth were you thinking?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur snapped. “That I didn’t want to train another manservant?”

Merlin stared at him, dumbfounded, then pushed away from the table, pacing back and forth across Arthur’s chambers like a caged bird. Arthur could practically feel the air thrumming around him. “I,” Merlin started, then shook his head, exhaled sharply, and said, “Arthur, I _never_ want you to die for me! I don’t care if it’s 23 years or 203! You can’t!” His voice broke, and he wiped his eyes, his glare growing even more venomous through the unspilled tears. “I’ve spent the last five years _protecting_ you, you arrogant arse! And now you just hand yourself to Mordred? For me? As if I would ever want to see you dead!”

He was shaking with anger, fighting back tears, and looking at him, Arthur felt suddenly more fond than he could bear. Taking a steadying breath to clamp down on his emotions, he stood, crossing to stand beside Merlin. The other man stiffened at his approach, but held his ground. Arthur stepped closer, near enough to feel the heat of Merlin’s body. Then calmly, deliberately, he reached out and cuffed Merlin across the head.

“What was that for?” Merlin snapped, glaring at him.

“Because you, Merlin, are an idiot,” Arthur drawled, smirking at the way Merlin puffed up indignantly. “You don’t honestly think I only made that bargain for you, do you?”

“What, then?” Merlin snapped. “You just fancied dying at Mordred’s hands?”

Arthur drew himself up as proudly as he could. “ _No_ ,” he said, “I did it for Camelot.”

Merlin snorted, crossing his arms. The banter was starting to calm him. His breath was coming a tad more slowly, and his voice didn’t sound quite as hysterical as he said, “That makes no sense, Arthur.”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “That’s because you’re a moron. You’re a sorcerer!” Merlin paled slightly, but Arthur charged on. “And according to the Druids, you’re not half bad at it.”

“I’m brilliant!” Merlin protested, but Arthur ignored him.

Trying to sound as calm and collected as he would when outlining a campaign, he said, “For 23 years, Camelot has had a tactical disadvantage. My father --” he swallowed, bit his lip, and then continued. “My father’s ban on magic left us defenseless against magical attacks. I’ve never agreed with him, there. If your enemy owns a sword, you’d damn well better learn to use a shield. “ Forcing a smile, he reached out and clapped Merlin on the shoulder. “You, Merlin,” he said, “are my shield. From now on, we’re going to be unstoppable!”

Merlin just stared at him for a moment, dumbfounded. Then a small smile quirked his lips, and the tight, scared place in Arthur began to loosen. “You’re that sure I’m going to help you,” Merlin said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

“Please,” Arthur said airily. “I _know_ you’re going to help me.”

“I don’t know,” Merlin teased. “I might have something better to do.”

“Like what? Wash my socks?”

“Washing your socks is a full-time job,” Merlin said. “They’re bloody disgusting.” He was grinning now, dimples beginning to form, and Arthur felt an answering smile spread across his own face. He’d almost lost this, he thought, drinking in Merlin’s smile. What would he have done without it? A decision that he hadn’t even realized he’d been mulling over snapped into place, and Arthur straightened, becoming more serious. Merlin cocked his head at him, still smiling.

“You stood with me,” Arthur said quietly. “At the round table.” Merlin nodded curiously. Arthur forged ahead. “I knighted the others, but I didn’t do anything for you.”

Merlin wrinkled his nose. “Don’t even think about making me a knight,” he warned.

“As if I would!” Arthur hesitated, shy, but determined. Gathering his courage, he sank to one knee in front of Merlin.

“Arthur?” Merlin asked dubiously.

“Shut up, Merlin!” Arthur said. “I’m trying to --” he swallowed, cheeks burning.

Abandoning words entirely, he reached out and caught Merlin’s hand. Merlin stared down at him, but let him take it. Arthur turned the hand in his grip, marvelling at Merlin’s long, slim fingers, at the wonderful wamrth of his skin. Merlin wore no ring, so instead Arthur kissed the back of his knuckles. His lips lingered a bit longer than strictly necessary, as though, through them, he could impart some measure of the emotion bubbling up in his chest. _I would do it again,_ he thought, pressing Merlin’s hand to his cheek before releasing it. _I would do anything for you._

Merlin remained quiet. The seconds passed, and finally, Arthur dared a glance up, thinking that if Merlin were laughing at him, so help him God, he would kill him all over again. But Merlin was looking down at him with shining eyes, tears rolling down his face. His lips were trembling, but he was smiling, beaming really, looking so radiantly happy, despite the tears, that Arthur’s heart swelled at the sight of him. Cowed in the face of such naked joy, Arthur glanced away, then back again, quickly. How long had Merlin been waiting for some kind of acknowledgment? Arthur swallowed, abashed that it had taken Merlin’s death for him to get it.

“Don’t let it go to your head,” Arthur mumbled, climbing to his feet. His ears were hot, and he couldn’t quite meet Merlin’s eyes.

A shaky laugh escaped Merlin. “Does this mean I still need to wash your socks?”

“Shut up,” Arthur said, reaching over to muss his hair. Merlin blinked at him, eyes bright and impossibly blue. Arthur swallowed, realizing, for the first time, how close they’d moved. He could feel the warmth of Merlin’s body, smell the green, medicinal scents of Gaius’s workshop on him. His lips still tingled with the warmth of Merlin's hand, and he suddenly remembered the strange half-kiss that had brought Merlin back to life. Merlin swallowed, bright spots of colour flaring in his cheeks. Arthur wondered if he was thinking of it as well.

It was too much. He trembled, turning away.

"Arthur?" Merlin asked, resting a hand on his shoulder. It burned through the thin fabric of Arthur’s shirt, and he swallowed, longing to turn and take Merlin in his arms, to burrow close to that warmth, hold it, and never let it go.

He closed his eyes, resting his forehead against the stone wall. "You should leave," he said.

Momentary silence, and then Merlin was drawing closer, a warm line against Arthur’s back. "No," he said, after a moment's silence. "I don't think I will."

Figuring that he’d given the man as much warning as could possibly be expected of him, Arthur turned and caught hold of Merlin’s neckerchief. Merlin met his eyes squarely, a bit confused, a bit defiant. Arthur hauled him close, and kissed him.

At first, the kiss was close-mouthed and chaste, like his kisses with Gwen always were. Tentatively, Merlin’s arms wrapped around him. It felt nice, lovely and warm, but it wasn’t enough. Not nearly. Arthur ran his tongue along Merlin’s upper lip, as he had when reviving him, and Merlin's mouth opened for him again. At the first brush of their tongues, Arthur knew that he was lost.

He clung to Merlin, drinking him in, trying to say with his body what he couldn’t manage aloud. _I missed you,_ he said with pressure of his arms around Merlin. _I need you,_ he said with a long, slow sweep of his tongue against Merlin’s. _I’ve never been so scared in my life,_ he said, burying his face in Merlin’s neck and inhaling deeply before Merlin’s fingers tilted his chin up for another kiss.

Merlin was taking the lead now, cradling Arthur's face in his hands. He licked into Arthur's mouth, and Arthur opened to him, letting Merlin's mouth, his hands, undo him as slowly and competently as he removed Arthur's armour after battle. It was like mulled wine in winter -- sweet, and warm, and deliciously wet. Arthur moaned into the kiss, and Merlin responded by pulling him closer, until the space between their bodies had vanished. The whole world shrunk to Merlin's narrow chest and wiry arms, the clever hands that were working their way inside Arthur's shirt to trace hot lines against the small of his back. Their legs slotted together, and Merlin's head fell back as Arthur's thigh pressed against the burgeoning hardness in his breeches.

A quiet, shuddering laugh escaped Arthur, and he grinned against Merlin's jaw, kissing him there because he could. Merlin sighed, tilting his chin up in invitation, and Arthur nuzzled into the fine skin of his throat. Merlin's neckerchief was in his way, so he tugged at it, fumbling with the knot until it finally came loose in his hand. The long expanse of Merlin’s throat beckoned him. He flicked his tongue against the pulse throbbing in the base of Merlin's jaw, his hand closing over the back of Merlin's neck to hold him in place. Merlin drew in a quick, sharp breath. Humming his pleasure, Arthur closed his mouth over the spot, licking, and nibbling, and peppering it with tiny kisses. He worked his way down Merlin's neck and collarbone, and tugged the laces from the neckline of his shirt to reach his chest.

"Arthur," Merlin groaned, grinding himself in small circles against Arthur's thigh, as though he couldn't help himself. He was a beautiful wreck -- hair mussed, lips swollen, cheeks red from stubble burn, and a bruise already beginning to form on his neck. His belt was undone, though Arthur's brain was too fogged to even remember which of them had done it. His jacket was half off, dangling from one arm.

“Take that off,” Arthur said, flicking the dangling sleeve of the jacket. “Take it all off.”

Merlin nodded eagerly, sliding off his jacket and reaching for the hem of his shirt. Ripping off his own shirt, Arthur started for the bed, not daring to look back at Merlin lest he get distracted from the task at hand. He stepped out of his trousers, hearing Merlin inhale sharply behind him as he bent to fumble in the nightstand. After a moment, he found it, hidden beneath a handkerchief in the back of the drawer: the tiny jar of salve he’d purloined from Gaius because it felt so good to slick his hand up before thrusting into his fist at night.

He'd never tumbled another man. His dalliances with women had been few, all whores and barmaids in villages far from Camelot. But he'd stumbled across two of his knights in a forest once. He'd read Martial and Catallus. He knew what men did to one another. Cradling the jar, Arthur turned, and let his eyes sweep over Merlin’s naked body.

Merlin was all lines and angles, long limbs, jutting hipbones, sharp knees and elbows. His prick, as long and slender as the rest of him, jutted up from the dark patch of hair between his legs. Arthur longed to wrap his hand around it, to taste the pre-cum glistening at the tip. But he’d mapped out the plan of attack in his mind already, and Arthur didn’t like to deviate from his plans. Blushing furiously, he thrust the little pot at Merlin, who took it, wide-eyed.

Arthur met his eyes, refusing to look away, despite the burning heat in his cheeks. “Will you fuck me?” he asked, scarcely recognizing his own voice.

Merlin just stared at him for a second, speechless, and then he was stumbling forward, pulling Arthur into a kiss. Arthur gasped at the heat of Merlin’s bare chest flush against his own, the wet slide of his prick against Merlin’s flat stomach. Merlin’s kisses were frantic, eager. He took one step forward, then another, crowding Arthur, propelling him backwards in a tangle of bare limbs and hot, firm skin until the bed caught Arthur behind the knees. He lay back, drawing Merlin down along him. Merlin went willingly, sliding over him, solid, warm, and deliciously alive.

“Merlin,” Arthur groaned. “God, Merlin. Please.”

Drawing back a little, Merlin looked down at Arthur, and tapped the lid of the jar. “Have you done this before?” he asked.

“What do you think?” he snapped. Merlin just looked at him, calm and a little disappointed. Arthur sighed, looking away. “I haven’t.” A sudden flash of jealousy hit him, and he propped himself up on his elbows, nearly dislodging Merlin. “Why? Have you?”

Merlin shrugged. “A few times.”

“Who?” Arthur demanded, narrowing his eyes.

“Will,” Merlin said. He glanced at Arthur sidelong, and added, “Um . . . and Lancelot. And Gwaine.”

“Both of them?!”

“Not at the same time!” Merlin snapped, defensively, and Arthur’s mind boggled at the very thought. “It only happened the once with Lancelot! A few years ago, when he first arrived. And Gwaine and I, we’re just mates. We’ve done it a few times for fun, is all.”

Arthur shot him a warning glance. “We,” he warned, “are not _mates_ , Merlin.”

Merlin laughed, a little breathlessly, and squeezed Arthur’s hand. “I know,” he said. A giddy smile touched his face, and he ducked his head, as if to hide it. “Believe me,” he said. “I know.” Charmed despite himself, Arthur reached to touch his cheek. Merlin nuzzled into the touch, kissing Arthur’s palm. “They were before you,” he promised. His cheeks flared red again, and he said, “And, well, if it helps, I was always on the other end of things with both of them.”

It did help, for some reason, although Arthur had no idea why. Lying back on the mattress, he met Merlin’s eyes.

“Do it,” he said gruffly.

Merlin nodded, opening the jar. The sweet scent of chamomile and lavender filled the room. Merlin scooped a finger into the jar, and Arthur closed his eyes, face burning. Merlin leaned down to kiss him, and Arthur accepted it gratefully. Merlin went gently, circling his hole lightly before pushing inside, but Arthur hissed just the same.

“Relax,” Merlin soothed, running a hand down his flank. Arthur nodded, gritting his teeth as Merlin drew the finger out before pressing in again. How they were going to fit Merlin’s cock in there, he had no idea. For his part, Merlin looked a bit concerned, too, frowning down at the place where his finger disappeared inside Arthur’s body. Finally, he nodded once, decisively. “Right then,” said Merlin. “Plan B.” He withdrew his finger.

“What are you --?” Arthur started, but Merlin quieted him.

“Let’s try this,” Merlin murmured, and leaned forward to close his mouth over the weeping tip of Arthur’s prick. The sudden shock of wet heat flooded his veins, and he sighed blissfully, rolling his hips up into it.

“Merlin,” he groaned appreciatively, as Merlin kissed and licked the length of him. Merlin pulled back to kiss the head, almost chastely, before plunging down completely, drawing Arthur into his throat. Arthur gasped, rising onto his elbows to watch. Merlin was beautiful like this, his kiss-swollen mouth stretched taut around Arthur’s girth, his eyes heavy-lidded, dark with desire. Tangling a hand in Merlin’s hair, Arthur lay back, surrendering himself to the gentle suction of Merlin’s mouth, the steady rise and fall of his head. Merlin drew up, then down again, slicking in a finger as he swallowed Arthur’s length. Arthur tensed, but not for long, as Merlin hummed deep in his throat.

“Oh fuck,” Arthur whispered, shuddering. He could barely think through the vibration of Merlin’s throat around his cock. Even the finger was starting to feel good, pressing firmly back and forth inside him. Arthur found himself rocking in time to it. “More,” he gasped.

Merlin slipped the finger out, and returned with two in its place. Arthur groaned at the increased stretch, pressing his knees further apart to give Merlin more room to manouvre.

“Yes,” he whispered, falling back into the delicious rhythm -- up into the wet heat of Merlin’s mouth, down to the steady press of his fingers. When Merlin added a third, it was almost too much. He bit his lip, throwing his head back against the pillow. But then Merlin reached deep inside him, brushing against a spot that sent a shiver of lightning down Arthur’s spine, while at the same time, sucking hard on the very tip of Arthur’s prick.

“Shit!” Arthur groaned, arching his spine and bearing down on the fingers inside him. “Shit, Merlin! Stop, or I’m going to --”

Merlin pulled away from Arthur’s prick with an obscene slurp, a string of saliva connecting them. He wiped his mouth, and grinned at Arthur, utterly beautiful.

“Ready?” he asked. At Arthur’s nod, he rose shakily to his feet, his swollen prick dark against the pale skin of his stomach. Merlin was stroking it with one hand, slicking it with salve. The mingled scents of sweat, herbs, and pre-come was heady, almost intoxicating. Arthur closed his eyes, breathing it in until the gentle touch of Merlin’s fingers on his hip called him back to himself. "Roll over,” Merlin murmured, stroking gentle circles on Arthur’s skin. “It’s easier on your hands and knees, the first time.”

Blushing furiously, Arthur did as he asked, spreading his knees and raising his arse in the air. He felt horribly exposed, open, hard, and so obviously waiting to be fucked. But Merlin was staring at him with awe in his eyes.

“ _Arthur,_ ” he breathed, almost wonderingly. Leaning forward, he pressed a kiss to one arse cheek, then the other. “You’re beautiful like this,” Merlin whispered quietly, reverently.

Climbing onto the bed and kneeling between Arthur’s spread legs, Merlin stroked his flank soothingly and murmured, “Here we go.”

The first press hurt more than the fingers had. Arthur fisted his hands, wincing at the tight stretch of muscle around the invading head of Merlin’s prick. He gritted his teeth, burying his face in the mattress. His erection wilted beneath the pain.

“Okay?” Merlin asked, easing in another half inch. Arthur grunted, spreading his legs and willing himself to open, to fit Merlin into his body as he’d fit him, so completely, into the rest of his life. He was glad now, that Merlin couldn’t see his face. He guessed that his expression didn’t look very encouraging.

“Do it,” Arthur said through his teeth. “For God’s sake, Merlin! Just --”

“All right,” Merlin said, stroking his hip. “Relax.”

He pushed forward slowly without stopping. Arthur inhaled sharply, his arms trembling slightly from the strain of holding himself up. It felt like being impaled, like being split in two. But Arthur had faced pain worse than this, and so he only bore down on it, taking it, taking Merlin, until his balls nestled snug against Arthur’s arse.

“How are you doing?” Merlin asked, running his hand down Arthur’s back. Arthur could feel him trembling with the effort it took to hold back.

“Fine,” Arthur said. “It’s fine.” With a shaking hand, he reached behind himself to touch the place where their bodies were joined. “Oh,” he whispered, wonderingly, stroking the base of Merlin’s prick and the tight seal of his body around it.

“I know,” Merlin whispered, leaning forward to kiss the base of his spine. “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” He gave an experimental roll of his hips, and Arthur gasped, gripping the blankets beneath his hand. Merlin’s hands slid over his hip in a soothing caress. “It gets better,” he promised, and slowly began to move.

After a few thrusts, the excruciating pain of the initial breach faded, dulled. Arthur felt sore and stretched, and uncomfortably like he had to use the chamber pot. But Merlin kept rocking into him, whispering, “Yes, Arthur,” and “Oh, you feel good!” Arthur felt himself relaxing more and more with every thrust, until he realized that he was bucking back to meet each press of Merlin’s hips.

Merlin pressed down gently between his shoulder blades, and Arthur followed the gentle pressure, letting his head and chest fall to the mattress, leaving his arse raised like an offering. “That’s right,” Merlin breathed against his back, kissing him there. “Just like that.”

His next thrust pressed him hard against the spine-tingling spot he'd found with his fingers, and Arthur groaned in surprise, writhing beneath him. It was like magic, he thought, like the charged water from the Cup of Life. He buried his face in the pillow and surrendered himself to it, to the liquid heat pooling in his spine and the steady snap of Merlin's hips. Each thrust curled Arthur's toes and coaxed a low keen out of his throat, and he thought that he'd never in his life been half this happy. Merlin had been dead, but now he was back, he was fucking Arthur, taking him, reaching deeper and deeper inside him with each press of his hips, so joined, in that moment, that nothing could tear them apart again.

Keeping one hand steady on Arthur’s hip for balance, Merlin reached around to fist Arthur’s renewed erection, dragging his hand in time to the rhythm of their coupling. His hand was dry, hot, and almost too much, and Arthur felt his balls tightening, the promise of imminent relief almost painful in its intensity.

"Give it to me, Arthur," Merlin growled, working him steadily, inside and out. "I want to see you come." The words were like a turning key inside him. In the next moment, Arthur gasped, arching his spine.

"Merlin!" he groaned, as his first hot streams of semen striped his chest and stomach. The long-fingered hand on his prick milked him through it, squeezing every last drop until Arthur lay shaky and limp on the mattress. Clutching Arthur’s hips with both hands, Merlin started to move with manic intensity, quick and shallow thrusts that left Arthur whimpering breathlessly in the pool of his own come, his body so sensitized that each of Merlin's movements registered somewhere between pleasure and pain. He scrabbled back for Merlin's hips, urging him on. Merlin's sigh was warm and moist against his back as he came inside of Arthur, his hips still moving in small, maddening circles. Arthur shuddered his pillow, reaching for Merlin's hand as he collapsed on top of him, sweaty and limp.

For a long moment, they could only lie there, back to chest, Merlin's spent prick still buried inside of Arthur. Finally, Merlin rolled off with a groan, Arthur wincing as he pulled free of his body. Turning onto his back, Arthur opened his arms and pulled Merlin down against his chest. He felt like he did after battle -- flushed and victorious.

This wasn’t as easy as a tournament, Arthur knew, and in the morning, there would be hell to pay for this, for each hot puff of Merlin’s breath against his sweat-damp skin, for the easy curl of Merlin’s finger into his own. There was Uther, after all, half mad and sure to challenge Arthur's right to the throne. Somewhere out there was Morgana herself, planning her revenge. There was Mordred, and a battlefield twenty-three years in the future.

But Arthur had the throne. He had the Cup of Life. He had twenty-three years, if he lived that long, and a kingdom to rebuild. He had Merlin.

“Don’t you ever leave me again,” Arthur whispered into Merlin’s damp hair, holding him closely, fiercely.

Merlin returned the embrace with equal fervor, pressing his face into Arthur's shoulder. “I won’t,” he promised.

Feeling Merlin's heart beat beneath his hand, Arthur allowed himself to believe it.

The End


End file.
